


The Turntable

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Domestic Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Dominant/Top Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV Dean Winchester, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A time stamp to the Chicago Verse, set a few years after we left off. The boys buy a turntable and Dean reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turntable

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just some porn with fluff because I love this verse a lot. Comments and kudos greatly appreciated! Please let me know if there's something you'd like me to write.

They buy a record player at a second hand store, even though it’s pretty much brand new. Older ones from the seventies cost more than they could afford, so they’re left with this one. If they wanted, they could plug it into Sam’s laptop and burn vinyl into mp3s but Dean is trying to ignore that. He sets it up and plays his Zeppelin record five times before Sam threatens several of his limbs.

On his days off, Dean drives twenty minutes to the nearest used vinyl store, which is also a book store. He comes in every Tuesday and Friday to go through the vinyl. Most of the people who look through the vinyl are older men (though Dean refuses to categorize himself as such) and they stand like they’re at the urinals. You respect a man’s space when he’s hunting for a clean copy of Cosmo’s Factory.

Sometimes Sam will join him, though Sam heads for books and Dean starts at “Rock A-C.”

He charms the gal who runs the vinyl into marking down things for him from time to time, when her manager isn’t around.

It’s summer now, and the Impala doesn’t have air conditioning, though the universe knows Dean tried. So their trips to the place become less frequent. Dean has managed to amass a healthy collection so far; he buys a small storage bin for them and writes what he has down with his own cataloguing system. Sam makes fun of him for it for days.

 

On a cooler day, Dean takes Mrs. Martinez out for a drive. She loves the book store and asks him to buy her some movies and a magazine. He buys that and a pristine copy of Back in Black. On the way home they stop to pick up a bucket of chicken. Sam joins them at her house, brings over a bottle of wine, and they eat and drink and listen to a mariachi record. She makes them dance with her and Dean does because he can’t say no and the wine’s too good and Sam looks great in those jeans.

 

Today, he’s home from the garage earlier than usual because the air broke and Francisco doesn’t mind closing down for the day because as he said, “At my age, what’s a little break?” Dean walks home, but on the way he stops for an ice cold six pack and two shrimp cocktails for the weekend. He swings the bag back and forth as he ambles on, sweating and thirsty, eager to shove the stuff in the fridge and take a cold shower.

It’s their third summer in Chicago.

He rigged up a way for the turntable to play outside, so they can listen to it while Sam gardens and Dean carves. At the boo kstore, on a break from flipping through vinyl, he found the woodcarving section. It’s a way to keep his knives feeling useful. He’s successfully carved a spoon and unsuccessfully carved a whistle that makes no sound.

After the ten minute walk, he’s dripping with sweat and cranky as hell. He plans on taking a beer into the shower. Until he sees who is on the lawn.

Sam and some guy. Some guy who is clearly extremely interested in the Winchester goods in front of him. And who isn’t aware of the Winchester danger behind him. Dean’s eyes narrow and he feels his mouth form a sneer. Sam notices him and smiles. He extends an arm out and puts it around Dean’s waist, which normally, gets Dean a little irritated because it makes him feel small next to Sasquatch. But now is not one of those times.

Being the nice guy that he is, Sam does introductions and the guy nods at Dean but doesn’t stop flirting. Dean ends the conversation before Sam can.

They rush inside after the guy finally leaves. Dean didn't even catch his name.

“Dean…”

“What? You gonna lecture me? You gonna tell me I’m being too ‘sensitive’ again? That what you wanna say, Sam?” Dean loudly shoves everything into the fridge, not caring if it disrupts the careful order he has things placed in.

His brother just stands there and gives him a small smile and those _eyes_.

“No, Dean, I wasn’t gonna lecture you,” Sam says. “Just… thanks.”

“Thanks?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I was having trouble getting rid of him.”

Dean considers this. Sam wouldn’t have any trouble getting rid of anyone. The man is a Winchester. He knows how to knock someone completely unconscious using minimal effort and force. Sam is six foot five for crying out loud.

“Well,” Dean grumbles as he crosses his arms over his chest, “don’t expect me to come riding in and save your ass every god damned time.”

There’s a wicked smile Dean is familiar with—gets him in trouble more times than he can count—and Sam licks his lips. “Nah, I can think of better things you can do to my ass.”

Before they stumble into the living room, clothes rapidly peeling away, Dean flips on the turntable. He plays a more modern band, a mix of blues and rock and twang. It’s a good mix of what Dean likes and what Sam will tolerate. Good enough.

 

Somehow they make it to Dean's room and onto his bed.

He slips into Sam.

It’s that easy.

There’s no comparison. He doesn’t slip into him like a glove. Because this is something else entirely. Dean counts to thirty. Lose it early and Sam will never— _ever_ —let him forget it. Dean lets out a groan; his hips and thighs burn and tremble. Sam replies with a whiny moan, tossing his head back and barring the long, elegant line of his throat for Dean.

He takes the offer and leans down, shifts his hips a fraction and pushes himself forward to bite at Sam’s neck. He leaves two marks, one of which draws a drop of blood.

“Move, oh _god_ ,” Sam begs. His strong legs are wrapped around Dean’s waist, pulling him in. “Please, please, please Dean!”

Falling apart isn’t a problem. He digs his fingers into Sam’s hair and rocks them together. Sam’s heavy, flushed cock bobs between them, slapping Sam’s stomach when Dean picks up the pace. Dean watches it and Sam’s mouth. If he could fill Sam up completely, he would be happy. Sam clenches and swivels his hips and gives him this _smirk_.

“Holy Jesus fuck,” Dean blurts out, tensing up, reaching down and gripping the base of his cock. “You little fucker. Nice try.”

“Stop talking,” Sam snaps playfully and places his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “Go for it.”

Dean gets as deep into his brother as he can from this position. He pushes and thrusts and slides in until Sam’s hazel eyes are rolling back. Slowly, he rocks back, almost slipping out completely. He pushes back in with one steady movement.

It’s not that Dean has to top. And they don’t always have sex this way. Sometimes Sam gets a shot at topping—he tends to overthink things but hey, it’s amazing—and sometimes they spend all afternoon blowing each other or dry humping half an hour before work. Sometimes they’re a couple of teenagers and don’t leave one of their beds for the entire day, not even to eat, because Dean learned a while ago that coolers full of sandwiches and beer and water next to the bed are the best thing ever.

“Shit,” Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight. He presses his hands onto Sam’s chest and gropes what he finds. Sam appreciates it, they move together faster.

“Over, flip over,” Sam pants, tugging and pushing Dean to the left. Dean grunts and has to think about what Sam is trying to communicate for a second. Eventually, and somehow, they flip in one swift move so that Sam is sitting on Dean’s lap, flush against him.

“Dean,” Sam moans and straightens his spine. “Dean, Dean…”

He can’t take it anymore.

He has his hands everywhere. At one point he reaches to grab Sam’s ass and holds him open. He braces his feet against the mattress and fucks up into his brother, hitting his prostate every time. Sam lets out a mix of choice words. Dean’s hands move to Sam’s powerful thighs and the dark hairs there. These days they get their work outs more from leisure than from hunts, but they’re still chasing things in the dark. Their maximum is six hunts a year, never without the other. Dean traces over a new scar Sam’s acquired. It’ll fade in a few days, so he’s not worried.

Sam manages to make a face that causes Dean to laugh. Sam smacks his chest but ends up also laughing. He leans down and kisses Dean once, twice, and three times. Soft and sweet, almost innocent, as only Sam can pull off. What isn’t innocent is the ways in which he’s twisting and swiveling his hips, riding Dean hard and making the bed squeak and headboard shake. Dean gasps and arches up, feels his toes curl. He clings onto the headboard and lets out a half yell half groan.

“Yeah, fuck yes,” Sam hisses and rides Dean through his orgasm, jerking himself off. “Come again, Dean. Come again.”

He can’t manage more than some slurred response but Sam is determined. Stubborn as fuck.

Of course he wanted to protest—coming twice was difficult in his thirties, now, in his forties, did Sam think he was a miracle worker?—but he is soon distracted. Sam pushes them both to an edge as sharp as any silver knife. Dean can’t believe this. He grabs onto Sam’s hips and holds the fucker still for one god damned moment. Dean catches his breath and sets out to finish; he pumps as hard and fast as he can, biting down on his lower lip from exertion.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Sam cries out and tosses his head back, hair flipping every which way, the long column of his neck exposed. He twists in Dean’s grip and pushes his chest out, hips back. His thighs and ass clench and Dean groans. “FuckshitDeanohfuck,” Sam moans loudly. He dips forward and holds himself up with a hand pressed on Dean’s chest, the other hand busily stripping up and down on his cock. Sam’s face scrunches up and he closes his eyes. His mouth falls open in a way Dean is familiar with.

The moment Dean feels his eyes roll back is the moment he knows he’s coming again. They each moan and pant things resembling words and names. Sam comes in thick, long ropes, managing to get a few lines on Dean’s chin. Sam even works himself hard into another orgasm a minute after, though he doesn’t come as hard. He tosses his hair back and exhales a sigh. Both of them look at the other, out of breath and sweating.

“Holy shit,” Sam laughs weakly. He eases himself down, beside Dean. “I’m shaking.”

“I can’t move,” Dean falsely complains. He slips out of Sam and there’s more mess all over relatively clean sheets. Every muscle in his body has gotten a work out. His left knee is a bit tender and sore, but he’ll kick Sam out of bed and make him get an icepack in a while. That’s what little brothers are for.

“Fuck, I could do that all over again,” Sam murmurs. His voice is wrecked; deep and throaty in a way Dean wishes he could hoard. It makes him smile and put an arm around Sam.

“Dude, you must’ve knocked your head against the wall or something. You ain’t sixteen any more.”

“Oh yeah, and how old are you, old man?” Sam retorts with a snort. He makes himself comfortable in the crook of Dean’s arm.

They’re pressed against each other even though they’re both hot and sticky and sore. They go quiet for a moment. Dean has his eyes closed. He takes a deep breath and sends a small thank you out to whatever.

 

Sex turns into a two hour nap.

Halfway through the nap, Sam gets up and retrieves supplies. He comes back with a warm, wet towel, two ibuprofen, an icepack, and a sandwich. Dean sits up and complains about being babied but allows Sam to clean him up and prop his left knee on one of the foam pillows he bought for when his knee needs to be elevated.

They sleep and there are no nightmares or panic attacks.

When Dean wakes up, he isn’t disoriented. He knows exactly where he is and who he’s with.

Who he’s with snores and drools in their sleep and has cold feet all year. Who he’s with leaves long hairs on the pillows and regularly wakes Dean up for slow, lazy morning sex.

He wakes up and his knee feels better. Stiff, but manageable.

He’ll get Sam to massage it later.

The turntable has long since stopped and the house is filled with a comfortable afternoon silence. He takes the opportunity to run a hand through Sam’s messy hair, brushing strands away from his face as he snores on, mouth open with puffs of air and a few snuffles exiting.

Dean tries to get a good look at his brother. He memorizes each mole, dimple, and the slight turn up his nose does. He looks over the stubble Sam has after two days of not shaving, the shape of his eyebrows, and how there’s more gray in Sam’s hair lately. It looks good though, like highlights. Not that Dean knows what highlights are.

He buries his face in Sam’s neck, buried by hair. A gentle nudge and then a slightly rougher shove, and Sam’s awake with a few snorts and a lazy yawn.

“Make me dinner,” Dean rumbles, mouthing kisses against Sam’s shoulders.

“You hate my cooking,” Sam rumbles back, leaning into Dean.

Dean makes a noise that’s half sigh and half groan. “You’d starve without me, Sammy.”

“Nuh uh. Mrs. Martinez would take care of me.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs and smiles into the soft skin of Sam’s back. “She probably would.”

“All the mole I could eat.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“With fresh tortillas.”

“Uh huh.”

“And tamales whenever I want ‘em.”

“Shut up.”

“And tomatillo sauce.”

“Dude, shut the fuck up.” Dean’s stomach growls for him and Sam laughs, reaching behind him to poke at Dean’s stomach a few times before Dean swats him away. After a few more obscenities are exchanged, they roll out of Dean’s bed and crowd into his shower. They make out under the spray, neither of them looking for a grand finale, and step out fifteen minutes later.

Half an hour later, they’re walking over to Mrs. Martinez’s to say hi. She’s got a guest—Mr. Valz from the grocery store—and they do proper introductions. Sam excuses himself and Dean before she can invite them to stay. He doesn’t want to interrupt what she’s got going on.

“Okay, but you come back tomorrow, Altito, and you change that smoke alarm, yeah?”

“Of course, I’ll stop before I go to work.”

With that promise wrangled from him, she lets them go.

 

After dinner and a quick stop at a thrift store—where Dean finds a CCR album he doesn’t yet have—they take their time walking back home.

Dean keeps track of little things.

The way Sam hangs his keys by the door, sets his wallet on the nearest countertop. The way they leave their sandals by the door. The way Sam sprawls out on his favorite, Sasquatch-sized couch, leaving enough room for Dean to join him if he wants.

The way he can put on his new record, grab two beers from the fridge, and snap at Sam to quit hogging all the space and move his ass over.

The way they can share the couch, together, one of Dean’s hands in Sam’s hair and one of Sam’s hands on the back of his neck. The way they can spend the rest of their evening like that, no pressure to talk or do anything or be anywhere.

The way the turntable plays clear and true, with small pops in the background that make the tracks sound better than any damn iPod could.

The way that after this, Dean’s going to put on Zeppelin and ignore Sam’s threats and sit on him and wrestle him away from the turntable. 


End file.
